Her Empty Bed

I still see her there, in the morning light,

Her laughter echoing, soft and bright.

Her bed is empty, her pillow cold,

A story unfinished, our lives on hold.

She walked with courage, she walked with pride,

But the world turned dark, and she disappeared inside.

No warning, no whisper, no final goodbye,

Just silence that stretches, a question of why.

I search for her face in the crowded streets,

In the faces of strangers, in the hearts that I meet.

I call out her name to the stars above,

But the night only answers with sorrowful love.

They say she’s a number, a statistic, a name,

But to me, she’s my sister, my heart and my flame.

They say she’s forgotten, but I won’t let go,

Her spirit lives on in the fire I show.

I march for her justice, I scream for her voice,

For the stolen, the silenced, who had no choice.

Her story is mine, and mine is hers,

A bond unbroken, by ethnic slurs.

Sister, I feel you in the drum’s low beat,

In the prayers we whisper, in the march of our feet.

We’ll turn their silence to thunderous song

For the stolen, the sacred, who did no wrong

Her bed stays empty, but our voices rise,

A thousand fires in the midnight skies.

No longer forsaken, no longer denied

With love as our compass, we’ll bring them inside.